


thunder, lightning, or in rain

by alcrasia



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen, look they're all in a loving sisterly relationship and that's just it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 04:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16527761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcrasia/pseuds/alcrasia
Summary: alternative title: first meetings between the weird sisters, and how they chose to never trust anyone but each other.





	thunder, lightning, or in rain

Of the Weird Sisters Three, Agatha is the first to be welcomed within the ranks of the Church of Night.

 

She is born a warm-eyed little girl, burdened with an unassuming smile almost saccharine to the eye. Many offer their services to raise her, the charming babe with the modest smile, and she is passed along like a spoilt pet, rather than a daughter, all to still the animosity among them. She is the adored yet unlucky child, the blessed yet unfortunate orphan, unable to do any wrong in the eyes of those who raised her, for an entire year, until Prudence is brought to the coven.

 

Prudence is, as Agatha immediately notices, different from her. Prudence does not need to smile as sweetly as Agatha does to get away with things — she just _does_. Agatha’s mouth twists awkwardly, bottom lip going stiff, when their tutors excuse her bratty behaviour, for which she is _never_ apologetic for. Prudence doesn’t get passed along the Church members like Agatha does. She gets to have just one person taking care of her. It takes years until she gets to know why.

 

“Why do you only get one dad?” Agatha asks Prudence one day, arms crossed on her chest as they stand by the river. “Did you pick him? I don’t get to pick _my_ parents.”

 

“Don’t be a fool. You don’t pick your father.” Prudence scolds, walking along the side of the river, and Agatha wonders whether she should push her in. Ever since she’d started learning smarter words, Prudence would take every opportunity to use them. To feel smarter than her, Agatha supposed. But _she_ was the older one — not Prudence. “Besides, he’s not my father. He’s my _guardian_.”

 

“I know what dads act like, and he acts like your dad.” Agatha argues back, moving quicker to follow her along the river and not get left behind. “He teaches you things, and gives you dinner, and gets you clothes, and-“

 

“As if you know what dads are like. You don’t even have one.” Agatha decides it’s about time to push her in, until Prudence speaks again. “He told me he wasn’t my father when I asked him. He’s just taking care of me, because I’m an orphan, just like you.” Prudence’s voice sounds more distant, and the other girl notices. Agatha almost always noticed.

 

“Oh.” Agatha mumbles, casting her gaze to the ground and using her foot to overturn a stone.

 

“But that’s okay.” Prudence’s tone finds a new confidence, taking Agatha’s hand in hers. “Because then, if Blackwood was my father, you wouldn’t be my sister.”

 

“What?” Agatha’s eyes widen at the thought. But she still holds Prudence’s little hand in hers, their fingers intertwining without either girl noticing.

 

“You’re Agatha _Night_ , I’m Prudence _Night_.” She explains, rolling her eyes when the older witch doesn’t understand. “We’ve got the same last names, we're the only girls like us, and we don’t have any _real_ parents to tell us differently. So that means we’re sisters. Lady Blackwood said it herself -- she even said we deserved each other.”

 

“But sisters like each other, don’t they?” Agatha asks, lifting an eyebrow. “You don’t like me.”

 

“When did I ever say I didn’t like you?” Prudence rolls her eyes again, this time wearing a smile. Agatha grins back, and for the first time in her life, it is genuine.

 

—

 

It’s another year into their sisterhood until Dorcas joins their trio.

 

Dorcas, as Agatha and Prudence agree, is _weird_. She doesn’t talk as much as they do, soft-voiced and sad-eyed, almost always melancholic in nature; as if she had anything more to mourn than parents she never knew. Prudence and Agatha were now 9 and 10 respectively, with Dorcas only just turning 7 by the time she began joining them. They were older, more grown now, and, as Prudence would say, _you’d think she’d start to grow up a little and mature like us_. And yet, despite this, Agatha saw fit to take the little red sparrow under her wing, while Prudence glowered in jealous contempt.

 

(Agatha was _her_ older sister, not _Dorcas’s._ )

 

While Agatha and Prudence would play in the forest, Dorcas would sit by and watch, pale fingers wrapped around her elbows as she leaned into her lap. Her dress, a soft blue colour contrasting the red of her hair, had begun to stain with the dirt and grime from the fallen log she sat upon. The very sight made Prudence sigh with distaste. Agatha could invite the youngest witch to the woods as much as she wanted – Dorcas never seemed to be in the mood to engage them there past the occasional forced smile.

 

“You shouldn’t bother coming if all you wish to do is mope about.” Prudence snaps bitterly, to which Dorcas flinches. “All you seem to be doing right now is wasting the air here.”

 

“Prudence,” Agatha warns, but the name is lost on its owner’s ears. Prudence walks slowly towards Dorcas, dark eyes fixed on the girl’s face with an irritated glare.

 

“Then why even invite me?” Dorcas bites back, standing up from her seat. Prudence stifles her shock – it is the first time she’s even seen Dorcas raise her voice beyond her habitual mumble. “Do you go through all the girls in the Church, and teach them to be just like you?”

 

“If you ask questions of everything you do, then you’re obviously not learning very well.” Prudence retorts, putting her hands on her hips.

 

“Well then, why don’t you teach me?” Dorcas suggests with a hiss. Prudence leans in closer, Dorcas beginning to waver under her scrutiny, and Agatha instinctually moves forward to restrain her until the younger witch stops.

 

“Asking questions makes you sound _stupid_.” Prudence states firmly, her words harsh through her teeth. “Even if you’re only pretending to understand what is around you, it makes you sound less like the baby you are now _._ ” She takes Dorcas’s hand in hers, not unlike she did with Agatha once, and the oldest witch feels relief from her sudden tension. Her words, Agatha notices, are near identical as that day near the river. “If you want to be a real witch like we’re going to be, then you need to start acting like us too. We are the only ones like each other in the entire Church. And the Church is only as strong as its weakest member.” Prudence phrases as perfectly as she heard it from Blackwood himself.

 

“Then, what do you-“ Dorcas stops abruptly, taking the time to rephrase her words. “Tell me how to start.” Agatha smiles.

 

“Well first,” Prudence takes Dorcas’s blue collar between her dark fingers, “let’s get you into something more… witch-y.”

 

—

 

Agatha is 11, Prudence is 10, and Dorcas is 8 when they first learn about Sabrina Spellman. They huddle together, three young conspirators joined in a tight circle in their most favoured part of the woods. They have become a sisterhood, closer than bond but no less than blood.

 

“I’ve heard her name before,” Agatha murmurs, leaning her shoulder against Prudence’s, “but I thought people were just joking.”

 

“I asked Lady Blackwood once,” Dorcas huffs, placing her hand against Agatha’s, “and she said to keep my head out of grown-ups business if I didn’t understand it.”

 

“Father Blackwood told it to me plain.” Prudence replies smugly, her wicked smile playing upon her lips again. “She’s a half-breed; half-mortal, half-witch.” The other two gasp in disbelief, joining hands as if the very thought was a threat. Pride swells in Prudence’s chest, knowing more than her sisters do. Yet, there’s a sense of connection and protection over the girls beside her as she presses their hands to her chest.

 

“That can’t be true,” Dorcas whispers. Her watery-blue eyes are filled with fright, horror, at the suggestion.

 

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” Prudence promises, pressing her forehead against her little sister’s. They have learned to reflect one another, not adverse like they were when they first met. Dorcas had become the beacon of support, the pillar against which Agatha and Prudence would settle their foundation upon. Dependable, trustworthy Dorcas.

 

“The Church would _never_ allow it; the Dark Lord would never-“ Agatha’s anger is stilled by Prudence’s hand leaving hers to press against her cheek. Despite Prudence’s agreed leadership, Agatha is still the oldest, filled with the protective temper underneath her flowered words and sickly sweet smile. Now, she uses it to protect her sisters, as well as herself. “She— _It_ is an abomination. What if it comes to the Church? Would they really do that?”

 

“ _I_ won’t allow it.” Prudence declares, her cool touch on both of her sisters. “Even if Father Blackwood allows it, I will _never_ let it near us. I will protect us.” Agatha and Prudence and Dorcas’s eyes see only each other, as they have always done, full of love and strength and pride. Dorcas is their pillar, and Agatha is their shield, but Prudence is their spear -- able to move beyond what they two can, sink deep into that which would threaten them, sharp-tipped and far-reaching.

 

They are the orphans of the coven, the daughters of Night, the Weird Sisters of the Church. They had wandered, and had found each other. They would not let go.

 

“Always.”

 


End file.
